


Repaid in Full

by ScaryScarecrows



Series: Gaslights [12]
Category: Batman: Gotham by Gaslight (2018)
Genre: Gen, but he had it coming it's fine, ding dong the clown is dead, going off the rails on a crazy train, the remaining Robins are Not Okay, violent death ahoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-20
Packaged: 2019-05-23 17:01:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14938301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScaryScarecrows/pseuds/ScaryScarecrows
Summary: No one cares how loud you scream in Lower Gotham.





	1. Ruined Punchline

**Author's Note:**

> In the comics proper, Dick really did beat the Joker to death once. Didn’t stick, Bruce resuscitated him. (DAMMIT, BRUCE.) But he tried.
> 
> They’ve gone out of their way to avoid Penguin and co. whilst in uniform (you think they wouldn’t be recognized? Think again.), so between that and some tweaks done before they, uh, went for it, they’re not recognizable as the Robins anymore.

It’s a quarter past four in the morning when the whole household is pulled out of Penguin’s study (emergency meeting-Mrs. Cobblepot has taken ill and he’ll be leaving at dawn, he just has some instructions for them) by the doorbell.

It’s pouring rain (April showers, her foot, it’s the May showers you have to watch out for) and this being Gotham, the only explanation is that there’s been a murder and that the police are doing their damn jobs. Well. For once. It was probably a rich man, that gets them moving.

Penguin mutters something about mannerless swine and gathers up a sheaf of papers that need his attention regardless of his mother. Olga squares her shoulders and marches to the door, flings it open.

Two minutes later, she returns. The casual observer wouldn’t notice a difference, but her bewilderment is obvious if you know where to look-her face is carefully blank, lips thinned, and something. Something is wrong.

She’s got Dick and Tim behind her, but it takes Dove a few seconds to recognize them-they’re…what is this, Halloween? They’ve got costumes on, some sort of armor. And capes. And they’re both clutching domino masks.

Oh. They…they haven’t…Jason’s death. They’re not _well_ , that’s what this is.

At least, that’s her first idea. A closer look says the red splashes aren’t strategic paint spatters, they’re _blood_ , mixing with the rainwater and dropping onto the floor with a steady _plik-plik-plik._ They’re both pale and as blank as Olga and that’s worse, somehow, than them dressing up and…

_What have you done?_

It’s telling, how so very wrong they look, that Penguin doesn’t even snipe about his carpet. He simply heaves himself up, clutching his desk for support, and just like that he’s the oily-yet-charismatic man that could sell ice to an Eskimo.

“What’s going on, lads?”

“He won’t laugh anymore,” Dick says softly and Dove’s hair stands on end. Dick doesn’t…he has never…that’s his voice, it is, it’s just… “He won’t laugh anymore, he’s stopped.”

“Dickie,” she says, moves towards him with her palms up, “what are you talking about?”

He pulls Tim (he looks so small in that armor he’s just a boy they both are what _have they done?_ ) against his side. Tim doesn’t even protest, just drops his head against his brother’s shoulder and looks at the growing puddle of bloody water beneath them.

“He started laughing,” Dick says, still in that soft (drugged?) voice, like he’s mentally far, far away. “He laughed and he laughed and then he **stopped**.”

Penguin frowns, nose scrunching up. Olga, though, is the first one to confirm.

“The clown?”

Tim nods, heavy and tired (and dear God he looks all of eight years old again…).

“He’s at the GCPD. Or.” He grins, then, sudden and sharp and no longer eight. That’s Penguin’s smile, s’what that is, and it’s all sorts of wrong on little Tim Drake. “What’s left of him.”

“Tim-”

“He killed Jay,” Tim whispers, arms winding around Dick’s ribs with a wet _sliiide-squish._ “He killed Jay an’ he was gonna kill more an’ more an’ we had to. _We had to._ ”

Penguin turns away and rubs his temples, murmurs, “Get someone to prove it. If it’s true…”

If it’s true, that’s a massive hole in the underworld, now. Lotta jobs gone, lotta quarrels going to be cropping up. And that girl-Quinn-she’s dangerously obsessive, she won’t take this well at all.

“Right away, sir.”

He’s quiet for a second more, like he’s going to say something else, and she waits. The study’s silent, save for everyone’s breathing and that damned _plik-plik-plik._

“God, I hope they did it,” he says at last, fervent and trembling. “For Gotham’s sake, I hope they really did it.”

Somebody had to. Joker is (was?) a mad dog, it would be a kindness to everyone. But…but not them, not…somebody should have done this before they…before Jason…

She makes the call to one of the boss’s, erm, police watchdogs, who says he’ll call her back in a few minutes. Olga is moving at last, gathering towels and muttering darkly in Russian. Dick and Tim are still.

“All right, boys,” she says gently, trying and failing not to think of them as skittish dogs. “All right. Let’s just. Let’s get you dried off and cleaned up and we’ll…we’ll worry about this later.”

They don’t move, not until Olga’s meaty hand comes down on Dick’s shoulder.

“Come along, _мои ангелы_.”*

That gets them moving, shuffling along like a two-headed beast. The phone rings a minute later.

“Holy shit, it’s him.”

“You’re sure?”

“He’s.” Tibbs gulps once, twice, three times. “He’s still smiling. His fuckin’ head’s off and he’s _still smiling._ ”

The floor feels like it falls away and Dove tightens her fingers on the phone, eyes closed.

_Oh, my God, they did it._

“Thank you, Constable,” she says faintly, hangs up and whispers, “He’s dead, sir.” Penguin doesn’t answer. “The. The J-” She can’t say it. Her throat feels swollen shut because he’s dead, his head’s off but he’s dead and they… “The clown.”

“I thought as much.” He closes his briefcase with a horrible _snap!_ “They were always reliable informants.”

But they…

She is not going to be sick. She has seen and heard of far, far worse.

_But they’re only children, aren’t they? Just last week Tim was complaining of growing pains, wasn’t he?_

No, she’s not going to be sick.

She places a call to the carpet man and wanders out to find them.

Olga’s got the situation in hand-she’s separated them into two boys again, taken their masks and capes, and plunked Tim, armor and all, into the bathtub. The soap suds are running red already. Dick’s standing by the door, heavy-shouldered and dead-eyed.

“Dickie?” Up close, in better light, there’s so much blood. It’s all over him and all over Tim and people don’t realize, do they, how much a man bleeds when you…when… “Come on, _cheri,_ let’s…let’s get this off’a you.”

He’s bigger than she is, now, but he may as well be twelve again-she’s barely put her hands on him when he folds into her arms and ducks his head under hers, whispering, “He’s stopped. He’s stopped, he’s stopped, he won’t laugh anymore…”

Yeah. He’s stopped. But what a price to pay.

THE END

 

 

 

*Google says ‘my angels’, but I speak practically _no_ Russian, so if Google is lying or whatever, please tell me.


	2. The Last Laugh

The Joker is a showman. Dick hates this fact, hates the turning of something that should bring joy into something so sour, but there you have it. He wants to be looked at, to have the spotlight.

That was the hardest thing for Dick, after his parents fell. Street kids _don’t_ want to be seen, being seen will get you killed at best, and slipping down dark alleys went against every fiber of his being. Not having an audience, any sort of audience, had been torture.

But now? Not so much. Especially not now that night’s falling-if Bruce wasn’t out before, he will be soon, and this time he’ll be out in the cape. If he sees them, if he _catches_ them, everything will be over before it’s even begun.

The drumroll hasn’t started yet, and it’s not _time._

It had been easy, really, to slip into some rattier clothes and disappear into Old Gotham, track down old associates. One of Penguin’s enforcers, Charlie Tripps, had swung them both into a bear hug before muttering something about a mime skulking about in the back of the bar. Funnily enough, the mime had proved chatty.

Especially when Tim sat down across from him, unblinking, and started pressing those delicate fingers of his against the man’s joints. ‘Weak left elbow,’ he’d said at last. ‘Easier than usual to dislocate. A good, hard wrench to the right and it will pop right out. Then we could-’ Here, he’d held up one of Dick’s escrima sticks and smiled the Brucie Wayne smile, ‘-shatter the bone, make it _very_ difficult to put back in, and very painful.’

They hadn’t needed to go that far, thankfully.

And here they are.

If the mime is to be believed, the Joker has set up shop in the ruins of the World’s Fair. The city never did anything with it, and Dick has no idea why.

It’s poetic somehow, he thinks. Right.

“Tim,” he says softly, adjusts his mask over his face one last time, “if things…start not looking good, you get out, you get yourself somewhere safe.”

Tim gives him a flat look.

“Don’t be an idiot.”

“Promise me.”

“No.”

“I can’t-I _won’t_ -lose anyone else, Tim-”

“Neither can I!” The sudden shout bounces against the burned remnants of the Ferris Wheel and they both freeze. When nobody comes running, Tim reaches over and grips Dick’s elbow, pulls him closer. “We do it together, no matter what happens.”

Some part of him says leave. Go home, or go _somewhere_ , but don’t do this. A larger part of him remembers just this morning, scrubbing his hands raw because Jason’s blood will never come off no matter how hard he tries.

He didn’t look after him. The least he can do is avenge him.

“All right.”

Tim lets him go. It’s quiet, dark and still. No vermin. No signs of life at all. Just the scorched shells of kiosks and attractions, looming dark and judgmental all around them.

But then they reach the spotlight, the one with a bat slashed upon it, and the giggling starts.

It’s far away, but it doesn’t matter because he’s _here_. They’ve found him.

The spotlight seems to be the border for the Joker’s current lair-every step past it makes the giggling grow louder, and there’s color here-confetti here and there, and tattered silk streamers. And, eventually, music. A calliope, to be specific.

The music is coming from a tent that _has_ to be new. Dick doesn’t know where the bastard got it, and he doesn’t care. There’s a good chance it’ll be ashes like the rest of this place by the time they’re through.

From a distance, the tent looks just like the ones he remembers darting into as a boy, laughing and ducking under the heavy flaps without a care in the world. Up close, the illusion is shattered-there’s tears and gashes in the fabric, stains on the lower few feet that are probably blood. And the colors aren’t right, they’re _just_ this side of too bright.

But then, from a distance, the Joker looks like a real clown, too.

The laughing reaches fever-pitch and makes Dick’s skin bunch up. Tim inhales, just once, before going carefully still.

And then, before Dick can stop him (or better, knock him out and hide him somewhere until this is all over), he flings the tent open, hurls a smoke grenade into the middle of it, and chaos erupts.

Between the smoke and the darkness, they’re literally fighting blind. Not that it matters-there’s not that many henchmen here, and most of them are either untrained or drunk or both. Besides, Bruce taught them how to fight with impaired vision. They aren’t very good at it yet, but the foundations are there.

They’re enough. Enough against drunken buffoons who can’t seem to do much more than panic and flail.

“Booooysss!” WHERE IS HE- “You’re disapPOINTing me!” Somebody’s knee goes sideways. Dick can’t bring himself to feel sorry. “If youuuu can’t handle a couple of knock-offs, what’ll happen when the Bat comes to play?”

He’ll be begging for Batman. Dick’s not about to lie, if Bruce shows up to stop them, he’s going to be…upset.

Tim’s staff whips out inches from his face and there’s the sound of crunching bone and somebody falling. That damn laughter somehow gets louder, bouncing up to the top of the tent, and-THERE.

The Joker’s worked his way around to the entrance, and like hell is he getting out of this.

“He’s makin’ a break for it!”

Tim doesn’t answer, but he doesn’t have to. Dick knows he’ll follow. And he does-just vaults over a couple of fallen bodies and gives chase.

Joker makes it maybe five feet before they catch him.

* * *

They knocked him out and stripped him, coming up with two sets of false teeth (rigged to blow, naturally), a stick of dynamite, a ribbon twirler covered with broken glass, a novelty pistol with one flag and one bullet, and a bottle of green liquid that they couldn’t identify. They stacked those and the clothes out of the way before trussing him up like a turkey and hauling him into a rotting apartment building in Lower Gotham.

No one cares how loud you scream in Lower Gotham.

The Joker remains unconscious for a good hour. They spend it unpacking the duffel bag they stored here earlier. A crowbar, for dramatic irony, a couple’a hacksaws, to keep him from running away, and a pair of good, old-fashioned brass knuckles. They were unable to find a harpoon, unfortunately, but Dick’s willing to bet that crowbar’ll work just fine if they push hard enough. Worst case? They tie a knife to Tim’s staff and use that.

“You okay, Timmy?”

Tim’s flopped against the wall. There’s a bruise on his cheek from earlier, but otherwise he looks fine.

Looks can be deceiving.

“I’m not the one with bruised ribs.”

He doesn’t…oh. Now that it’s been pointed out, he realizes that he’s got an arm over the sixth and seventh on his right.

“They’re fine.” He sits down next to him and together they stare at the white, spidery body in the middle of the room. They could have picked a better angle, he thinks. Joker’s face is turned towards them, lips stretched wide in a strychnine grin.* Not for the first time, Dick wishes he’d been successful when he poured the stuff down his throat.

At least those yellow eyes are hidden under thin lids. It’s something.

He knows the bastard’s unconscious, but he pulls Tim against him anyway, hand brushing against the warm metal of his mask. Tim doesn’t pull away. He never has. That was always J…Jason’s thing, and even he only did it when there were other people around.

Tim’s not shaking. Dick thought he might be, but he’s just still and quiet, fingers shredding a scrap of paper he found on the floor.

This’ll be over soon. He’s not sure how he’ll feel, after. He’s never. Not.

He’s not a murderer. He’s _not._ And this…legally, it’s murder, but…it’s more like putting down a rabid dog. Or the death penalty. Bruce insists everyone can be redeemed, can be helped, but the Joker can’t and he’s not going to stop. He never stops.

They have to. It’s the right thing. Doing the right thing is hard.

“It’ll be all right, Dick,” Tim mumbles, dropping his scraps of paper and patting them into a heap before worming his arm behind his back. “We made it this far, didn’t we?”

They could kill him now. They should, before he wakes up. But…but that would be a mercy, a mercy he’s never shown anyone, and…

Some dark, gnarled part of him bites down on that and refuses to ponder it further. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.

A life for many, many lives.

He plunks his head on top of Tim’s and watches the bastard breathe. Then, maybe ten minutes later, the wheezing giggles start and those papery lids peel themselves up one by one, like window shades.

“Look at you!” He doesn’t even try to squirm, just gazes up at them. “Daddy’s boys flew the coop! But wait…” Don’t. “Weren’t there three of you?”

Dick flicks his wrist, sending a shuriken flipping through the air to embed itself in the Joker’s thigh. The blood that comes out is red, stark and horrible against the white skin. The clown wiggles in delight.

“Touch-yy! Daddy won’t be happy with you.”

“He’s not coming.” He stands up, now hyperaware that his ribs really do hurt, and rifles through their supply of weaponry. Tim moves closer, cautious as ever, and Dick settles for the crowbar. Keeps his hands from dragging his little brother back to the safe section of the room. Or locking him in a closet. “It’s just you and us, all alone.”

“Could be dangerous.” The grin grows impossibly wider. “I love it-ah-ah, baby bird, I’m a laaady!”

“Don’t call me that.”

Tim’s hands are on his ankle and they **twist** , hard and sudden, and there’s a soft **pop!** before the foot hangs limply out of joint.

“If you get your fingers positioned just right, s’like opening a crate,” he explains. “Leverage and weakness go together.”

The giggles have become strained with what Dick hopes is pain. Tim moves back, cocks his head in that unsettling manner he has. With the bird’s mask, it’s borderline demonic.

“He’s still nursing a cracked rib from the last time,” he says, voice carefully flat. Dick wraps his fingers around the crowbar and pulls his arm back to swing it.

“Let’s fix that.”

The shattering of an already damaged bone is a unique feeling, he knows from experience. Especially when bits chip off and make their way into the body around it. It takes a minute for the pain to kick in, but now that the crowbar’s hit once, it wants to hit again.

This time, a tooth is knocked clean out, ruining that goddamn grin once and for all. Furry, green-dye-washing-out eyebrows knot together in a rage and he aims for the jaw this time, knocks it sideways.

He won’t stop laughing

_“Dickie, please-”_

Why won’t he stop isn’t this hurting him at all-

_“Hurts…”_

**_He won’t fucking stop laughing-_ **

**CRACK!**

At first, he has the wild, nonsensical thought that the crowbar’s broken. But no, it’s bloody and messy, but intact. There’s bits of flesh on the end, he registers. White, gloppy, fatty bits.

“’Wing,” Tim says softly. There’s blood on his face when-oh. Spatters. That’s all. “We need to finish up.”

The giggling is cut with chokes and sputters but it’s still there. They do not need to finish up. They need to make him **stop.**

But Tim’s holding up one of the saws, teeth gleaming in the weak light, and before Dick can stop him, or argue, he’s rolled the Joker over onto his back with a nasty crackling noise. And it’s then, with the haze starting to fade off, that he notices the clown’s legs are very still. Abnormally still. And now? So’s everything else but his shattered face.

The teeth of the saw press against the throat. He should stop him. One of them deserves clean hands.

But his hands are shaking now, shaking badly, and Tim’s are not. And God help him, they need steady hands.

“Where _is_ your angry bird?” Tim’s head twists suddenly, lips thinned. “Don’t tell me I killed him and didn’t know it! Come on, who was it? Dying man’s last request?” The bloody eyebrows waggle and a tongue pokes out through broken and missing teeth. “Telllll meeeee.”

Tim sets the saw down and for a minute, Dick thinks he won’t do it just yet, or at all. But then he grabs the wiggling tongue, rips the shuriken out of the Joker’s thigh, and cuts straight through it. The hunk of flesh slips out of his fingers and onto the wooden boards with a sickening _whap!_

“Shut up, Joker.”

He picks up the saw again, hands still so, so steady, and starts cutting.

The blood comes immediately. It doesn’t fly out like it does for a stage performance, just flows and flows and _flows_ , dripping over the teeth and down to the floor.

The laughter doesn’t stop and when Tim’s hands start to shake at last, Dick picks up the other saw, crouches down on the other side, and does what he does best-help his sibling.

The laughter doesn’t stop for another two minutes, and when it does, it’s sudden. Just a short, sharp puff of air. But the smile stays, and the eyes are still open, even when they finally pull the head free and throw it into the bag where it can’t look at them anymore.

Tim looks from the tongue to Dick to the bag and whispers, “He won’t come back, will he?”

“No,” he says, pulls him into a hug. “No, he won’t come back.”

Heaven help him if he tries.

THE END

 

 

*In the original GBG comic, Joker appears as an Easter egg-Jim (I think it’s Jim, anyway) mentions him as a guy who killed his wife and tried to off himself with strychnine. Didn’t take. Pity.


End file.
